


The Resurrection of Allison Argent by One Lydia Martin

by raktajinos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Lives, Bisexual Character, Blood Magic, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Magical Lydia Martin, Magical Tattoos, Resurrection, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raktajinos/pseuds/raktajinos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She did it, wondering the whole time if this was the price she must pay, selling off part of her soul in order to bring back another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Resurrection of Allison Argent by One Lydia Martin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chiomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/gifts).



> I hope you like this, it went a different direction than I imagined :P. I have like six different WIPS for that TW/Fringe crossover, but I just couldn't make them work. If I ever get one of them done, I'll be sure to gift it to you.

She gritted her teeth as the pain traced its pre-determined path up her body; following the lines she’d had etched into her flesh as if it was a roadmap. 

Which it was. 

She was on her knees, naked, in the heart of the forest, hands digging into the cold dirt, her body doubling over from the burning. 

_She would not pass out_

She had been preparing for this night for nearly two years. Two years of relentless research, of hunting down witches, mages and scholars looking for guidance, for answers. 

Through the rushing sound of blood in her ears, she heard a voice. Faint, but strong. 

“Lydia!” 

“Lydia!” the voice said again 

It was Marin. She was standing on the edge of the pentagram Lydia had drawn in the dirt with mountain ash, arms outstretched, little beads of sweat forming on her brow. 

Lydia looked up at the woman, _the witch_ who had agreed to help her in this quest. 

“Stand up.” she commanded, her voice determined, but her arms were beginning to waver.

Determined, Lydia dug her hands into the dirt and pushed herself up, finally rising to stand at the center of the pentagram. 

\----------/

This ‘quest’ as Stiles had so deemed to call it, began a little over two years ago to the day. The day her best friend was unnecessarily murdered in the woods, in this very spot. It was _not_ supposed to happen that way; she had had visions, glimpses of the past, of the future that never made sense to her until they came to pass. But she had seen Allison’s future, and _this_ was not it. She was not supposed to have been taken from this world so soon, her work was not done. Lydia had always been a selfish person, and she was glad to have the visions as an excuse to do this, but that’s what they were. An excuse. She wanted Allison back, needed Allison back. Her best friend, her kindred spirit. She could not be left to live this nightmare of a life without her. 

She’d known from her countless hours of research, that resurrection was possible...it just wasn’t considered _right_. Lydia didn’t give a fuck about what a bunch of dusty books said was right or wrong. _She_ knew what was right for her. And this was it. After dealing with the morals of it, Lydia’s biggest issue was the ‘how’ as most of the texts were sparse on the details which lead Lydia to determine that none of these so called ‘experts’ had ever attempted it. So she found the nearest witch she knew, Marin, and asked her for her help. 

Well, more like demanded her assistance. The witch was initially appalled by her quest, but agreed to take Lydia to see her coven, hoping that they could persuade her off this path. 

They could not. They reiterated the same old tired reasons her research had given her….

_  
… it wasn’t safe  
… you don’t have the right to mess with forces like that  
… there was price to pay for it  
… it hasn’t been done in centuries  
… nature has a way of balancing things out_

_blah, blah, blah  
_

None of that dissuaded her. The price of the magic she wanted to invoke, she was told would be something or someone she loved. Lydia was a pragmatic woman and it may have been heartless for her to say, but she didn’t love anyone else. She’d grown up as an only child in a cold home without any love lost between her parents, it wasn’t until she met Allison that she knew what it was to love someone and be loved in return. Sure, she liked her friends, liked the men she seduced, but she didn’t love any of them. So whatever the universe decided to take from her, she was fine with it. Even if that price was her own life. 

Marin’s coven turned out to be incredibly helpful after they’d gotten over their scepticism and horror. They were a diverse group of women from all walks of life who had access to an unprecedented amount of knowledge passed down through the generations, locked in memory or in magically sealed tomes. They insisted on doing a glubenstaag, a ritual where the coven joins their collective powers to try and read the future as well as the heart of the intended...namely Lydia. 

She’d gotten some dirty stares after the glubenstaag was completed as well as a few appraising ones as well, particularly from this young blonde witch who, when this was all over, Lydia might just come back and visit. The ritual itself wasn’t painful persay, but it was incredibly uncomfortable. 

Lydia had sat in the middle of the room, crosslegged in a sort of variant lotus position, hands resting on her knees. In one hand she held a ball of ice the other a small rock that had been sitting in the fire; something about the ‘duality of passion’. She expected for her hands to start burning, but they did not. The witches, thirteen of them, stood around her in a circle, hands clasped, chanting. She felt the magic pulsing around her, like sitting in a sauna, the air moving around her and through her. It felt incredibly intimate, as if these women had access to her most personal thoughts and feelings. Which they did. But Lydia had made up her mind to follow this through whatever the cost, so she sat there and let them read her. 

She apparently passed, because after about an hour the witches stopped, leaving Lydia alone in the room while they conversed in another. 

Johanna, the coven’s leader came back in shortly and knelt down to where Lydia was still sitting on the floor, holding the now cold rock. 

“Lydia,” Johanna said, her bright eyes locking with her own. “This magic you seek is possible. You have magic in you, but it is not enough,”

“Will you help me?” Lydia asked, voice dry.

Johanna looked at her carefully, her face a mask. “No,”

“why n-” 

“and nor will the rest of my coven,” she interrupted. “It is not our way,”

Lydia’s stomach fell. 

“However, if you are truly dedicated to this cause, this man,” she said handing Lydia a small card, “can assist you.”

Lydia took the card, eager for another lead. 

“But I must warn you, he is dangerous. He deals in dark magic, he is not to be trusted,” she warned, eyes pleading. 

“Then why are you giving it to me?”

“From the glubenstaag we know you will not give up this quest. It is likely you would find another such practitioner to assist you with this, one who is less...inclined to do right by you, and by us. The devil you know, as the saying goes,” 

Lydia thanked them for their assistance and agreed to come back to tell them of her experience, as they wished to add it to their ‘malifaculum’. 

The man they directed her to was a mage named Devlen out in Arizona. He was _gorgeous_ and Lydia could see how he could easily get whatever he wanted; cheekbones that could cut glass, beautiful smooth brown skin, muscles in all the right places, tall, and a trim beard that had that deliberate messy quality to it. He was _exactly_ her type. 

\----------/

 

Lydia focused on the task at hand, on repeating the lengthy and complicated phrases of the spell. The spell she had to dig up in the Salem archives and compare it to a horrible translated German version she had discovered in a truly horrible corner of the internet. 

She felt the power of the earth, of her own inherent magic, of the blood in her skin. 

 

\----------/

 

Blood magic, it was blood magic. Whenever Lydia had read the term she never really thought about how literal it could be interpreted, which is something she really ought to have done. As she had learned, she had magic within her, but it wasn’t enough for the type of spell she wanted to enact. That sort of power took decades to build up, decades of practice of balancing oneself with the threads of power in the earth, and she didn’t have that kind of time. Part of her had hoped that maybe she had some sort of untapped power within her that she was unaware of; she went years without being aware of her banshee and premonition power. But that was not to be. So it came down to blood magic. 

“Blood magic,” Devlen explained in his liquid accent of a voice, “is the practice of fusing the magic of yourself with the magic found in another,”

“Do I drink it? Is it like a vampire blood-drinking thing?” she asked, seriously hoping it wasn’t.

He chuckled, “no, not a vampire thing. Blood must be fused with blood,” 

She gulped. Needles. Intravenous. It all sounded _very_ hygenic. 

“It is tattooed into the skin, using the blood as ink,” he continued, “the person who desires the power must be willing to undergo a crucible, the pain of the inking, to prove they are worthy of the magic. Tell me Lydia, are you worthy?” he asked, trailing a finger up her arm.

“Yes.” she replied confidently 

“We shall see,” he smiled, his grin like an eager predator. 

“Where do you get the blood?” 

“Oh, that is up to you, my dear. The blood can be given freely or be taken by force,” Devlen said. 

“Which one is more powerful?” 

He paused, resting his chin in his hand as if he was pondering the question. “Both methods are equal in their power, albeit they come from different locals. Blood magic given freely is a gift of love, only given in a true act of selflessness and consent. It cannot be tainted by darkness. Blood magic taken by force, is unwillingly given, the act itself a violation of another human being and carries the weight of that action.” 

He let that rest a minute to let her consider. 

“Tell me, lovely Lydia, which will yours be?”

“Taken,” she said without a pause, his eyes full of dark delight at her confession. 

 

\----------/

 

“quisque hīs ipsīs studiīs suum animum alere debet,” Marin began chanting from outside the pentagram, Lydia soon joining her, words long since emblazoned in her memory. 

The white lines of the pentagram burst into a blue flame, stretching up from the ground to lap at the bottom branches of the trees surrounding them. This was the point of no return; she was trapped within the flames and if she did not complete the spell, the flames would consume her. 

She turned and opened the wooden box that stood next to her, its metal clasps hot to the touch. Still chanting the words, she pulled out the object inside, forcing her stomach to calm itself as she remembered what she had done. 

With a practiced ease, she put the severed head down between her feet. 

 

\----------/

 

It took her nine months to hunt him down, following leads, bribing police and hiring hackers to track his location. He moved around, following his ‘god-given’ mission wherever it might take him, cutting down werewolves, witches and the like without any remorse or thought of the collateral damage he left in his wake. She finally found him in hotel bar in New York. The man who had killed her friend.

She’d put on one of her sluttiest outfits and pretended to be interested in him, flirting and touching, playing it real easy and invited him up to her room where he was all too eager to join her. Drugging him was all too simple and he quickly passed out on the bed. Devlen was there to help her get him to her car and shove him in the trunk. She was glad for his assistance, but kept heed of the warning given to her by Johanna.

Lydia soon wished that taking his blood would be as simple as just killing him, _that_ she was prepared to do, had resigned herself to do. He deserved it. But that was not to be. In order to truly ‘take’ the power, one had to drain it from them. Devlen, oh so conveniently, had a room already set up for such an activity and Lydia tried not to dwell on how often he did this. The draining was gruesome, but she did it, wondering the whole time if this was the price she must pay, selling off part of her soul in order to bring back another. She was relieved when Devlen told her her victim could remain sedated the entire time and would not feel any pain. The pain was for her to experience. 

Once all the blood had been collected, drained from the man who killed Allison, it was then mixed with a sample of her own blood which had been taken earlier. Then the process began.

“Are you sure?” Devlen asked her one last time, a hand stroking her naked thigh. 

She shivered at the contact, wishing to get this part over and take him back to bed. He was evil to be sure, but hot as fuck. No reason she couldn’t mix business with pleasure. 

“Yes,” she replied confidently. And really, what was the point of changing her mind now. 

He nodded, sitting down on the stool next to her and picking up his tattoo stylis. 

She was laying on a worn wooden table, its grooves long since smoothened out by people before her. Her wrists, hips, neck and ankles were strapped down to the table so she wouldn’t thrash about, wearing nothing but her bra and underpants. It would be erotic if not for the template lines drawn all over her body. 

The marks, Devlen had said, were unique to each person and each blood magic transference. Her’s were predominantly angular shapes, triangles and squares with sharp edges to them, not the swirling patterns she’d expected to see. Her’s were a design of revenge, of the fine line balance between life and death, of the many routes our choices can take us. He told her that the lines would fade as the magic was absorbed into her own, burning away as she used stronger magic. They had better or else she’d never be able to wear mini skirts again. 

It took nearly ten hours for Devlen to finish the process, literally injecting her skin with the blood, going over the template lines with the dark red of the liquid. It burned from the first prick of the needle, unlike any tattoo she’d ever had before. A searing heat that itched and made her feel like her skin was tearing away. It only got worse as the hours passed, as more blood was etched into her skin until she was almost screaming from the pain. But somewhere, in the back of her mind, beyond the pain she could feel it….feel the power...feel her magic getting stronger from the man she’d killed. And that made it worth it. The growing feeling of strength. 

That if she could survive this, it would be worth it. 

 

\----------/

 

She removed the pure silver dagger from where it had lain in the dirt; it was one of Allison’s. The spell called for a pure elemental blade and Lydia thought it was fitting to use one of her friend’s treasured heirlooms. She took the blade and ran it across the palm of her hand, gently slicing the skin, blood pooling to the surface. Upturning her hand, she let the blood drip onto the head beneath her, the magical link now fortified. 

Blood returns to blood. 

Her skin once more burst as if it was on fire; the lines of ink beginning to sear away as the drops collected on the dead man’s head. 

Marin began chanting louder, and Lydia stretched her mind out beyond the pentagon of flames, feeling the other woman’s power supporting her own. Marin had agreed to act as Lydia’s anchor for the spell; her connection to the physical world, to remind her of her mission, to end Lydia if the spell got out of hand or if she could not handle the power...or more likely, went mad with it. 

_That_ would not be happening. She focused, feeling the energy inside her, the power of the magic around her, and she kept chanting. 

She felt the earthiness of Marin’s energy, the smell of fine tea and wool and it warmed Lydia, connecting her with the root of her magic. _Not_ the blood or the violence that went with it, but the lines of energy that connected everything and everyone as one. 

The fires burned higher and brighter, their chanting went louder and faster. 

Then nothing. 

The blue fires of the pentagon went dark, the loss of their heat being immediately felt as the cold forest air pressed in around Lydia. 

She waited. 

Nothing. 

She looked up at Marin who had a mix of confusion and concern on her face. Lydia was confident she got the spell right, she performed it in its original Latin and she was nearly fluent in ancient Latin. She got all the ingredients right, did everything right. Why wasn’t it working? 

Something pulled in her stomach; like the cold dripping you feel when you’re about to be sick. 

“Lydia,” Marin said, hand shakily pointing to Lydia’s feet where the head was. 

Correction, where the head had been. 

She looked all around her, daring not to move her feet, but the head was gone. In its place was a small pool of blood. 

She peered down at it and out of the corner of her eye she saw something move on her legs. The ink. She looked closer at her arms, stretching them out in front of her; the long angular lines that made up the tattoo marks were moving, like blood rushing across her skin, racing itself, leaving pale unmarked skin in its wake. 

She followed the rushing red lines as they travelled downwards, over her shoulders, down her chest and stomach, all swirling in a cacophony of red on her legs before finally joining the small pool of blood on the forest floor from the now-gone head. 

The blood began to gurgle and boil, expanding as if it was coming out of the dirt itself. Lydia took an instinctive step back, careful not to step out of the pentagon’s interior. 

Suddenly, the pool burst into flame, the same blue hue as earlier, this time burning a violent white along the edges. Lydia shielded her eyes from the brightness. 

Then it stopped. 

Darkness once more in the forest. 

Lydia couldn’t see anything, her eyes too slow to adjust from the white light to the sudden darkness. But she heard it. The gentle sound of someone breathing. Someone that wasn’t Marin and definitely wasn’t herself. 

Too terrified to move, she willed her eyes to adjust and slowly, slowly, the forest started to come into focus. She clenched her fists and turned to look down at the ground. 

And there, laying where the pool of boiling blood had been, was the long slender, very naked body of her friend. 

“Allison!” she cried out, falling to her knees next to her friend. 

“Allison?” she tried again when there was no reply, daring to reach out a hand and touch the other woman’s shoulder. Her skin was warm. 

“Ly -” she started, voice cracking as if she had forgotten how to speak

Allison rolled over, opening her eyes to meet them with Lydia’s. They were the same crystal clear hue they’d always been and joy lept in Lydia’s chest.   
“Lydia?” she finally managed to say, pushing herself up awkwardly on her hands. 

“What happened?” she asked, looking around at the scene and Lydia realized how ridiculous it must seem, both of them lying naked in the forest in the middle of the night, with their former guidance counselor standing - fully clothed - near by. 

“Do you feel alright? Like yourself?” Lydia asked, completely bypassing Allison’s question. 

“Um, I think so. How did I get here. The last thing I remember was….” she started, horror distorting her features as she put two and two together. 

“I died,” she said coldly. “I’m dead!” panic beginning to set in. 

“Allison. Allison!” she said, arms reaching out to wrap around the woman, pulling her close. “Yes, you died. And I…”

“I brought you back.”


End file.
